INDEX—My Poems in or from Greek Forms

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Yes, you’re right. I’m sure Armageddon’s coming:
wars, tsunamis, hurricanes, earthquakes, locusts,
killer flus, et cetera. Yes, I’m awed by
     all the destruction.
I concede your point that the world might end, and
all your puny labors will be as nothing.
Still, you can’t go out with your friends until you’ve
     folded the laundry.

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What, no Sapphic stanzas? The foxy Sappho
didn’t always use them herself—no one-trick
hedgehog, she—but where are the famous stanzas
     named in her honor?
Aaron P.’s translation does not attempt them.
No, instead he reaches for something bolder:
namely, Sappho’s other renowned inventions—
     pēctis and plectrum.
         pēctis: an ancient stringed musical instrument.
	plectrum: a thin piece of tortoiseshell to pluck a musical instrument’s strings.
Music is the essence of Sappho’s magic,
argues Aaron P., but her quantitative
(length-based) meter changes when English gives it
     stress-based percussion.
Witness this review, with its weakened line-ends.
English must demote to a long-short combo
what, in Sappho’s Greek, would be mainly long-long,
     bold and emphatic:
          - u -  x    - u u -    u - -
          - u -  x    - u u -    u - -
          - u -  x    - u u -    u - -
                          - u u -    u
Aaron further grieves that, while ancient cultures
instantly inferred from the Sapphic stanza
this is something songlike, our own thinks this is
     prosy and awkward.
Still, free-verse translations are not the answer:
shunning formal elements Sappho valued,
these “betray her poems by their very nature.”
     (Thus he condemns them.)
What to do, then? Aaron invokes the song-forms
English-speakers know from their own tradition.
This is something songlike, indeed. Prepare for
     aural enchantment:

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Iambs, standing in for the Sapphic template,
dance through three tetrameter lines, one half-line.
Rhyme preserves the emphasis Sappho gave her
     lyrical line-ends:

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On the whole, I find his approach successful,
though his frequent metrical substitutions
paired with off-rhymes (stomach/come back, and even
     dalliance/battalions)
sometimes raise my eyebrows. The choice of diction
feels contemporary, with few exceptions.
(Who, this day and age, says bedizened? Must we
     dance with the Webster’s?)

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Wonder how these excerpts have fared with others?
Here’s the way Anne Carson presents them (’02,
Knopf) in If Not, Winter, although I’ll skip the
     Greek she puts facing:

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Anne’s concern for simply transmitting extant
text is why her lines have opposing Greek, and
why so many pages contain such random
     fragments as these three:

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Aaron’s goal, instead, is to give the reader
pleasure. String too small to be saved is absent.
Further, he’s reorganized songs by topic,
     not just by number.
Notes (which are detailed, and at times, amusing)
face each fragment, rather than lurk as endnotes.
Though without the numbers, it’s hard to find old
     favorite pieces,
Aaron P.’s achievement in this translation
stands. The graceful music of Sappho’s pēctis,
plucked by rhyme as if by a skillful plectrum,
     drowns my objections.
Stung with Love, the subtitle Aaron gives his
new translation, comes from the thrilling piece that
German scholars found in ’04. Another
     reason to buy this.

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Sing about the sanctity human life has.
Preach with all your passion: Abortion’s murder!
Afterwards, wind down with a soothing death stick,
     smug in your maleness.
Suck the calming poison that causes cancer.
Taint the perfect organs your Maker gave you.
Human life is precious in women’s bodies.
     Not in your own, though.
Slowly self-destruct, in a way that rules out
making any life-saving gifts to others.
Maim your liver, pancreas, kidneys, heart, lungs.
     Damage them. Waste them.
Vandalize these treasures, so you and others—
patients needing transplants—will perish sooner.
God made women vessels of life, not you, right?
     Men don’t get pregnant.
Smoking? That’s your medicine. Helps you function.
Helps you fight anxiety, which unmans you.
If you quit, you’ll crumble. Complete your mission!
     Think of the children—
millions—who will live when abortion’s outlawed.
(Care about them only until they’re born, though.
Vote against the programs that help support them.
     Kids are expensive.)
Think of justice: women should feel the birth pangs
God assigned to Eve, in His perfect wisdom.
Sin and death were caused by a wayward woman.
     Women should suffer.
Virtue equals maleness. Its root's the Latin
vir, “a man” . . . not homo, “a human being.”
Eve is evil. Punish, control, subdue her,
     adamant Adam.
Let your male self-righteousness rise like incense.
Smoke like that proverbial chimney, built on
hearthstones far beneath you, where women labor.
     Tower above them,
fiery martyr. Fume at the fallen females.
Wheeze your hymns to Him—to Almighty Maleness.
God forbid that women should say, as men do,
     This is my body.

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January: Agnes—her name means “Chaste One”—
holds a lamb (a pun on the Latin agnus).
Note the flowing streams of her hair, which hid her
     twelve-year-old body,
naked, on parade to a Roman brothel.
Note the sword employed when her would-be rapists—
like the flames lit later—refused to touch her.
     Notice the palm branch,
signifying martyrdom. Note her crimson
robe, another emblem of Christian martyrs.
Patron saint of victims of rape, Saint Agnes,
     ora pro nobis.

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February: Agatha—Greek for “Good Girl”—
bears her severed breasts on a plate, serenely.
Tortured for her chastity. Never raped, though.
     Virgin and martyr.
Spared the degradation of rape’s defilement,
though she died a sexual sadist’s plaything.
Lesson: God won’t tolerate rape’s pollution
     tainting a Good Girl.

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Skip ahead. Miss May is Antonia Mesina.
Head and face smashed in in the nineteen-thirties.
Age sixteen when brained by a thwarted rapist.
     I was a teen, too,
when the Pope beatified her. Another
virgin-martyr patron of rape survivors.
Verified as virgo intacta—something
     ever-so-private;
something that her modesty wanted shielded;
something she had given her life defending;
something that her coroners broadcast widely.
     Waved in our faces,
alleluia. See how the Lord protects His
favored ones from genital violation?
Doctors’ probings proved that she’d kept her hymen.
     Proved she was holy.

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Moving on: Maria Goretti, farmgirl.
Miss July. In 1902, a neighbor
stabbed her fourteen times when he failed to rape her.
     She was eleven.
How had I offended the Lord at less than
half her age—allowed to be raped, not murdered?
Even in my innocence, I was guilty.
     I was unworthy.
God withheld divine intervention, proving
I was not an Agatha, nor an Agnes.
I’d deserved what happened to me, like other
     rape-punished children.

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Pray for us. And pray for a Church whose members
help abusers stigmatize rape’s survivors,
though Augustine’s City of God said virgins
     raped are still virgins.
Pray for us. And pray for a Church more heartless
now than when Aquinas affirmed that raped nuns—
even those impregnated—still are virgins:
     mind over matter.
Pray for us. And pray that our Church recalls that
Miss December—virgin and martyr Lucy—
claimed a second heavenly crown would honor
     those who’d been ravished.
How it would have helped me, to hear that virtue
wasn’t something stored in a telltale membrane
someone else’s lust could destroy, forever
     leaving you lesser.
How it would have helped, to have heard this message:
Virtue—male or female—cannot be graded
pass/fail, based on criminals’ choice to harm you.
     (Gruesome injustice!)
How it would have helped, to have heard Survival
isn’t proof of sinfulness. Share your burden.
Minus that, the upshot was Hold your tongue, or
     all will condemn you.
Rapists want the world to despise their victims.
Shame buys silence. Shout! Let the Church proclaim this:
Rape indeed does happen to blameless people.
     Calendar, update.

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[Redacted until post-publication]

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“Where was your sculptor from?” “Sicyon.” “What did they call him? “Lysippos.”
          “Speaking of names, what is yours?” “Time, the All-Conquering Force.”
“Why do you tiptoe?” “I’m sprinting—as always.” “And what are your wings for?
          Each of your feet has a pair.” “Wind-borne, I flit here and there.”
“Why does your hand hold a razor?” “To be a reminder for humans.
          This is my likeness in life— keen as the sharpest-edged knife.”
“Why is your hair in your face?” “To be seized by the ones who approach me.”
          “Why, then, by Zeus, do you lack any at all at the back?”
“Once I have passed on my swift-flying feet, I’ll be captured by no one
          longing to make me rewind, reeling me in from behind."
“Why, and for whom, did the craftsman create you?” “My lesson’s for your sake,
          stranger. For you I was made. Here, on his porch, I’m displayed.”

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α. Τίς πόθεν ὁ πλάστης; β. Σικυώνιος. α. Οὔνομα δὴ τίς;
          β. Λύσιππος. α. Σὺ δὲ τίς; β. Καιρὸς ὁ πανδαμάτωρ.
α. Τίπτε δ’ ἐπ’ ἄκρα βέβηκας; β. ’Αεὶ τροχάω. α. Τί δὲ ταρσοὺς
          ποσσὶν ἔχεις διφυεῖς; β. Ἳπταμ’ ὑπηνέμιος.
α. Χειρὶ δὲ δεξιτερῇ τί φέρεις ξυρόν; β. Ἀνδράσι δεῖγμα,
          ὡς ἀκμῆς πάσης ὀξύτερος τελέθω.
α. Ἡ δὲ κόμη, τί κατ’ ὄψιν; β. Ὑπαντιάαντι λαβέσθαι.
          α. Νὴ Δία, τἀξόπιθεν δ’ εἰς τί φαλακρὰ πέλει;
β. Τὸν γὰρ ἄπαξ πτηνοῖσι παραθρέξαντά με ποσσὶν
          οὕτις ἔθ’ ἱμείρων δράξεται ἐξόπιθεν.
α. Τοὔνεχ’ ὁ τεχνίτης σε διέπλασεν; β. Εἴνεκεν ὑμέων,
          ξεῖνε· καὶ ἐν προθύροις θῆκε διδασκαλίην.

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Echo-producing cicada, you make yourself tipsy on dewdrops,
          belting your back-country song; wilderness warbles along.
Perching up high in the leaves with your serrated legs, you play music —
          brown (as if toasted by fire) skin making sounds like a lyre.
Go and perform some new melody, though, for the Nymphs of the wood, dear.
          Partner with pipe-playing Pan, thereby permitting my plan:
briefly escaping from Eros, I’ll slip into slumber at midday,
          taking my ease where I’ve stayed — under your sycamore’s shade.

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Ἀχήεις τέττιξ, δροσεραῖς σταγόνεσσι μεθυσθείς,
          ἀγρονόμαν μέλπεις μοῦσαν ἐρημολάλον·
ἄκρα δ᾽ ἐφεζόμενος πετάλοις πριονώδεσι κώλοις
          αἰθίοπι κλάζεις χρωτὶ μέλισμα λύρας.
ἀλλά, φίλος, φθέγγου τι νέον δενδρώδεσι Νύμφαις
          παίγνιον, ἀντῳδὸν Πανὶ κρέκων κέλαδον,
ὄφρα φυγὼν τὸν Ἔρωτα μεσημβρινὸν ὕπνον ἀγρεύσω,
          ἐνθάδ᾽ ὑπὸ σκιερῇ κεκλιμένος πλατάνῳ.

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“Sculpture by…?” “Phidias. His was the image of Pallas Minerva.
          Jove he made, also. And me. I am his Feat Number Three.
I am the goddess Occasio, noticed by few, and those rarely.”
          “Why do you stand on a wheel?” “Well, I can never stand still.”
“Why do your sandals have wings?” “I am flighty. Though Mercury scatters
          prizes, it’s I who will choose—guided by whim—which is whose.”
“Why hide your face with your hair?” “I dislike being recognized.” “Hey! You’re
          bald at the back of your head!” “Thus, I’m not caught when I’ve fled.”
“Who’s your companion?” “Let her do the talking.” “Explain who you are, please.”
          “I am a goddess whom famed Cicero’s work never named.
I am a goddess who punishes deeds that are done, or are not, by
          making folks sadly upset. That’s why they call me Regret.”
“Over to you again—why does she join you?” “Whenever I fly from
          people I’ve passed, she’ll remain. Her, they will have to retain.
Likewise will you. Though you pester and probe, though you stall with your questions,
          still, I have now slipped away—right through your hands, you will say.

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Cuius opus? Phidiae: qui signum Pallados, eius
          quique Iovem fecit; tertia palma ego sum.
sum dea quae rara et paucis OCCASIO nota.
          quid rotulae insistis? stare loco nequeo,
quid talaria habes? volucris sum. Mercurius quae
          fortunare solet, trado ego, cum volui.
crine tegis faciem, cognosci nolo. sed heus tu
          occipiti calvo es? ne tenear fugiens,
quae tibi iuncta comes? dicat tibi. dic rogo, quae sis.
          sum dea, cui nomen nec Cicero ipse dedit.
sum dea, quae factique et non facti exigo poenas,
          nempe ut paeniteat, sic METANOEA vocor.
tu modo dic, quid agat tecum, quandoque volavi,
          haec manet; hanc retinent, quos ego praeterii.
tu quoque dum rogitas, dum percontando moraris,
          elapsam dices me tibi de manibus.

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Cicada, “blest” we title you,
for when you’ve drunk a little dew
in treetop heights, the way you sing
is reminiscent of a king.
          +14 lines — remainder of translation redacted, due to publication agreement.
          I have a limited number of PDF offprints to share, if you’d like to request one.

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Μακαρίζομέν σε, τέττιξ,
ὅτε δενδρέων ἐπ’ ἄκρων
ὀλίγην δρόσον πεπωκώς
βασιλεὺς ὅπως ἀείδεις.
σὰ γάρ ἐστι κεῖνα πάντα,
ὁπόσα βλέπεις ἐν ἀγροῖς,
ὁπόσ’ αὖ φέρουσιν ὗλαι.
σὺ γὰρ εἶ φίλος γεωργοῖς,
ἀπὸ μηδενός τι βλάπτων·
σὺ δὲ τίμιος βροτοῖσιν,
θέρεος γλυκὺς προφήτης.
φιλέουσι μέν σε Μοῦσαι,
φιλέει δὲ Φοῖβος αὐτός,
λιγυρὴν δ’ ἔδωκεν οἴμην·
τὸ δὲ γῆρας οὔ σε τείρει.
σοφέ, γηγενής, φίλυμνε,
ἀπαθής, ἀναιμόσαρκε·
σχεδὸν εἶ θεοῖς ὅμοιος.